


Thirteen Rusty Mason Jars.

by BarPurple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Ghosts, Inspired by Music, Past Child Abuse, Post Season 10, The Darkness - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Darkness super charging all the things that go bump in the night it's back to basics for Sam and Dean. </p><p>Saving people. Hunting Things. The family business.</p><p>All the while trying to get a lead on the faceless Darkness and stay alive. </p><p>In Jasper, Alabama Dean's music knowledge just might help them solve the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before season 11 started, so it's veers from canon after season 10.  
>  **Please read the tags**  
>  This fic includes talk of past child abuse (not main character) Those chapters will be tagged in the notes.  
> I know nothing about Jasper, Alabama, apart from Google Earth pictures. This is a fiction and is in no way an accurate representation of Jasper or its residents. Any resemblance to reality is a coincidence.

**Way Back When  
Jasper Alabama 1933**

A soft summer breeze whispered through the tall-leaf pines playing a backing track for the crickets the chirped in the reeds at the edge of the swamp. Today had been a scorcher and the air still carried the baked feeling of the late afternoon heat. Leroy snorted wetly and hawked a glob of phlegm over the porch rail. The moon was just visible through the top of the trees. The pale yellow light made his skin itch. It had been a while since he’d checked his treasure; maybe tonight was a good time. 

 

**THEN**

A half-moon hung in the sky hiding and peeping from behind clumps of cloud. Somehow its pale glow cast more shadow than light across the swamp. Trees took on monstrously twisted forms and every creak and slither suggested danger was lurking on all sides. 

The young man was gasping and stumbling through the muck and swill of the swamp, heedless of where he was going, only caring that it was away from the rundown shack. If he got out of this alive he’d never bitch about Coach’s training drills ever again. A gnarled root captured his ankle tipping him face-first into the inky black water. His breath was coming in harsh pants, which cracked into shaky laughter when he saw just how close he was to the sandy ground that separated the woods from the road.

With a sickening slurp he dragged his hands free from the swamp bed and lurched towards the nearest tree, not realizing that his feet barely moved. A hiss of pain forced its way between his teeth as he tore two fingernails down to the quick, but he didn’t let go of the tree. The rotted bark crumbled to dust under the desperate pressure and he splashed back on to his face. Thrashing and spluttering he got his head back above the surface. Panic gripped him and squeezed the air from his chest as he struggled to free his hands from the hidden sucking mud. His violent twisting and wrenching stilled as the moon breached a cloud bank. A long shadow fell across him. Trembling in dread he stared, wide-eyed over his shoulder. Babbled pleas and prayers fell from his lips and the shadow advanced. 

The scream was cut short by a splash. An annoyed owl hooted and swooped away from the disturbance. The gurgling water rippled and a cruel laugh drifted faintly through the trees.

 

**NOW**

The deep rumble of a V8 engine could be heard long before the black Chevy came into sight over the brow of the hill. As the car ate up the distance a sharp ear would have caught the sound of Anything Goes playing on WBXD. A very sharp, but unlucky, ear would have caught the off-key singing of Dean Winchester.

First and foremost Dean’s musical heart belonged to classic rock, but singing along to country songs made Sammy laugh and groan. They’d had enough of the groaning recently, but the laughter was a welcome change. Dean fell silent as the song faded out to be replaced by the local news. Sam straightened up and listened as the news anchor reported again on the disappearance of Walker High School student Karl Perkins. There was a request for any information and a tearful plea from his parents for the boy to just come on home, but there was nothing new in the report. Dean switched the radio off as the report moved on to other news.

“Remind me again why this is our kind of thing?”

Sam leaned over into the back seat and pulled his notes out of his bag. As he opened the folder up he glanced across at his brother. Dean looked a little pale and there was a tightness around his mouth and eyes that suggested a hidden pain. Sam wondered if that was a result of the dislocated shoulder that he’d had to pop back into place after the last hunt, or if there some echo of the Mark of Cain was still lingering in Dean’s system.

“Earth to Sammy!”

Dean clicked the fingers of his right hand under Sam’s nose. Sam blinked and batted his brother’s hand away. 

“Sorry man, brain just checked out there for a second.”

“Uh-huh. So why is this missing kid our kind of thing?”

“The news and police reports and pretty bland, but there’ve been signs that the Darkness has been present in the area, so…”

Fighting the Darkness was like punching fog. In the past they had always had a face to label as Big Bad; Dick Roman, Yellow Eyes and Lucifer were all at the top of the chaos they caused. That was the problem, the Darkness was chaos it didn’t need someone in charge, it simply was. 

It had taken them a week or so to realize that the Darkness was acting like a super charger for all manner of nasty. Death echoes became malignant spirits, wendigoes ventured further towards civilization to satisfy their hunger and ghouls had become even grosser. There was an effect on humans too and that turned out to be a mixed blessing. On one hand turning the news on had become severely depressing, but on the other sudden out breaks of road rage and increases in muggings gave then a way to track the supernatural effects of the Darkness.

“So it’s probably going get worse than just one missing kid.”

Sam shrugged, he’d been thinking along the same lines.

“Unless we can work out what got powered up.”

“Just like the last dozen then.”

Dean sighed and pushed in a tape, while Sam opened the file on the missing kid. The Impala rolled on down US 78 towards Jasper to the sound of Metallica’s Black album.

 

[][][][][][]

 

An hour later they rolled into Jasper and found a Super 8 motel. As they checked in Dean nudged Sam towards the poster bearing the face of the missing kid. Sam just nodded and noted the contact number was for the local sheriff.

Dean opened the door to room 115 and breathed a sigh of relief. The place was plain and practical, decorated in neutral colours. It was a far cry from the kitsch nautical theme of the last place they’d stayed in. Or was that the place before that? Over the past couple of months one motel had blurred into the next as they fought the effects of the Darkness.

“I’m gonna wash up they we should hit the sheriff’s office.”

Dean gave Sam a nod and tried to stifle a yawn. The bed looked tempting, but he sat down on the moulded plastic chair instead. If they were lucky then today would just be walking and talking to get the lay of the land. There had been too few hours of sleep recently; all Dean wanted was four hours of dreamless sleep. His eyes drifted towards the bathroom door and the sounds of Sam splashing the dust of the journey from his face. 

He knew Sammy was worried about him. Dean just wasn’t sure what was wrong, so didn’t see the point of adding an unknown niggle to the heap of things already on Sam’s mind. The only thing that Dean was sure of was that the vague unsettled feeling in the back of his mind had nothing to do with the Mark of Cain. Hell’s tramp stamp was gone and though he’d tried to explain this to Sam, his mule headed little brother just would let go of the worry that Dean had a Cain hangover.

Dean slapped his hands to his knees and pushed himself to his feet. He dug into his duffel for his washbag, the tiredness was receding a little, but a coffee stop was definitely in order. Sammy emerged from the bathroom looking a lot brighter than Dean was feeling. As they traded placed Sam’s hand caught Dean’s shoulder.

“When are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you Dean?”

Dean patted his brother’s hand.

“Sammy as soon as I have any idea what’s up you’ll be the first to know.”

“Are you sure it’s not the Mark…”

Dean was shaking his head and replying before Sam had a chance to finish his question.

“I keep telling you, the Mark felt like, I don’t know what it felt like, but I know how it felt and this ain’t that. Okay?”

“Okay Dean.”

Dean yawned and walked into the bathroom. As the door closed Sam called;

“We’ll grab you a coffee on the way and I’ll drive!”

The cheap wood of the door didn’t quite muffle Dean’s response. Shaking his head Sam turned to his bag muttering;

“Jerk.”

 

[][][][][][]

 

Suited, booted and armed with a double expresso Agents ‘Williams’ and ‘Daniels’ were surprised by the relieved welcome they received at the Sheriff’s Office. Local law enforcement welcoming the FBI with open arms was never a good sign. There was a sombre chaos going on in the office. Sam knew was Dean was picking up on the vibe as well. Something bad had happened and the only reason these people weren’t freaking out was because they had a job to do.

They were met by a Deputy Conner. The man was probably about Sam’s age, but his boyish features made him look a lot younger. The slightly wide-eyed fear on his face wasn’t helping either. He explained that Sheriff Olson was at the crime scene. 

“We’ve found what we think is Karl Perkins. At least we’ve found some of him.”

Sam gave the young deputy a reassuring pat on the shoulder, which seemed to help as Conner’s voice was steadier as he continued;

“I don’t know what’s gotten into folks these days. It’s like somebody’s dumped crazy juice in the water. Sorry agents, I’ll drive you to the crime scene.”

“We’ll follow along after you in our car.”

 

[][][][][][]

 

The scene was only a twenty minute drive from the centre of Jasper, but the town was compact, so it didn’t take much to be out in the county. The way the woods fringed the town only increase the isolated feeling. By Dean’s guess they were less than half a mile from the main road but he couldn’t see it in the rear view anymore. He’d not survived this long by ignoring his instinct and right now the hairs at the back of his neck were pointed due creepy.

By the time they came to the patrol cars at the end of the loose gravel road the woods were thick around them. As they got out of the Impala Dean’s nostrils caught the rotted scent of swamp. 

Deputy Conner hurried over and pointed out Sheriff Olson. He left them by the Impala and headed towards the Sheriff who was speaking to one of his men. Olson was a wiry built man who looked fragile next to the deputy he was talking too. The guy looked like he’d played quarterback in high school and had kept fit ever since. He was faintly green around the gills and was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The Sheriff gave him a pat on the shoulder and made his way across to Sam and Dean.

The Sheriff turned from his sick deputy and gave the FBI agents the once over. He strode over with his hand extended and offered a firm handshake as Dean introduced them.

“I’m Sheriff Olson, wish you could have come to Jasper under better circumstances.”

“Agents Williams and Daniels. Deputy Conner says you’ve found a body that you believe is Karl Perkins.”

Sheriff Olson didn’t appear to be in any hurry to walk them through the scene. It was obvious that the man was shaken.

“It is young Perkins. The boy wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t a devil either, just an ordinary kid. Agents, I hope you’ve got strong stomachs. Ricky there’s got the constitution of an ox, but he’s just puked his guts out at what’s in that shack. He made it outside first so the scene’s intact.”

Dean let Sam talk to Olson, He caught his brother’s reassuring tone of voice, but didn’t listen to the actual words. He made his way to the shack and braced himself for the worst.  
The deputies had managed to set up a couple of decent light sources inside the dingy shack. Dean blinked a few times and tried to work out what the hell he was looking at. He’d been expecting a blood soaked crime scene, a tortured corpse that would look all too familiar for a survivor of Hell, but the shack was empty apart from a thick layer of dust and a dozen or so large jars in the centre of the floor. A quick look around confirmed that this was a one room place, so he was in the right place. Ingrained instinct made him reach for his EMF meter, before he remembered they’d given up trying to use them since the Darkness rose. The damn things melted anywhere the Darkness had been active and it just wasn’t worth the burnt fingers.  
Dean walked over to the jars and crouched down. Suddenly everything became clear; the jars were full of body parts. Dean identified intestines, a foot and a head. The face was distorted by the murky glass and the way it had been crammed into the jar, but enough was clear that this was the missing kid, Karl Perkins. 

“Wow. That is weird.”

Dean squinted into the light at a giant shadow that could only be Sammy. The younger Winchester dropped into a crouch opposite Dean and stared at the jars.

“Oh man, I think that one’s got the guy’s junk in it.”

“If you’re going to barf get outside.”

Sam gulped and pulled a face.

“I’m okay, dude. Any ideas what could do this?”

There was a wisp of an idea in Dean’s mind, but he couldn’t grab hold of it just yet, so he left it be and considered what manner of monster they could be dealing with.

“Unless there’s something missing I don’t think we dealing with a werewolf, fang, or ghoul. I’ve seen poltergeist stack body parts in the middle of a room, but never seen one, or heard of one that stuffed them into jars first.”

Sam had stood up and was examining the walls and ceiling with the aid of his torch. Dean looked around at the floor and realized something.

“Look at the dust in here, but there’s only four sets of footprints.”

Sam’s eyes scanned the rough wooden floor and he started to think out loud.

“Ours and the deputies. They could have walked over any other tracks, but if they did they must have stepped right on them. You know what else in missing?”

Dean’s knees popped as he straightened up.

“Blood.”

“What about blood, Agent Daniels?”

It took Dean a fraction of a second to remember that Daniels was his fake name today, he seriously need some real sleep. He covered his slight pause by clearing his throat.

“There isn’t any blood, puddles or splatter, Sheriff. Karl Perkins wasn’t killed here, this is the dump site.”

Olson took the news stoically.

“I’d have never thought you could fit an entire human in thirteen Mason jars.”

That wisp of an idea flashed in his mind again as Dean cocked his head at Olson and asked;

“These are Mason jars?”

“Sure they are; old ones by the look of it.”

“Sherriff, you said thirteen, there’s only twelve here.”

Dean did his own quick count to confirm Sam’s number for himself. There were only an even dozen jars.

“The last one is out here.”

Sam and Dean followed Olson out into the sunlight and around the side of the shack. The swamp smell was strong here and Dean paid attention to where he was stepping since not all of the ground looked entirely solid. Olson led them a little way along the track and stepped aside so they could see the final jar. It was wedged in the fork of a tree and contained the hands of the murdered kid. 

“Looks like a signpost don’t it?”

Olson was right the way the jar was turned on its side and the fact that only the index fingers were extended did make the severed hands look like a sign. Admittedly it was the sort of sign you’d find in the Ghost Train at the fair, but it was pointing towards something. Dean turned his gaze in the direction of the fingers. All he could see was more swamp and woods.

“What’s in that direction Sheriff?”

“Trailer Park and some small holdings, but there’s a fair stretch of swamp between here and there. We’re going to have to wait until the morning before we can search it properly.”

Sam started to ask why, but Dean already had an idea of the problem.

“Quicksand?”

Olson nodded; Sam’s eyebrows quirked up.

“I honestly thought you only got quicksand in comic books.”

“Lots o’folk make that mistake. If they’re unlucky they only make it once. Doc Mathews will be doing the autopsy at Peaceful Rest first thing tomorrow. Anything unusual you gents think he should be looking for?”

“Any tool marks, or bite marks, if any organs are missing, or if there’s anything been added to the remains.”

Olson’s eyes had widened slowly as Sam rattled his suggestions. He pulled his hat off and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Dean wondered if the Sheriff played poker, with a stress tell that like he couldn’t win all that often if he did.

“I can’t imagine the things that you guys must see to be able to reel off a list like that so calm.”

Dean gave him a tight lipped smile.

“Best not to think on it too much, Sheriff.”

 

[][][][][][]

 

Dean spent the drive back to the motel with a slight frown on his face. Sam watched him carefully as he hummed and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Rather than stare he took out his phone and pretended to be checking something out, but in fact he was watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Dean was sort of muttering to himself, but Sam couldn’t hear anything, until Dean said in a careful tone of voice;

“Sammy, Google ‘thirteen rusty Mason jars’ will ya?”

It took Sam a moment to type in the phrase and the results confused him.

“Erm, okay. Top results are for a song called ‘The Legend of …”

Dean slapped the steering wheel and almost shouted;

“Wooley Swamp. Charlie Daniels Band right? Think we’ve found the source of the legend.”

As Sam scrolled through the lyrics of the song he wished, not for the first time, Dean had more faith in his own intelligence. The way he’d made the possible connection between the case and an old country song proved he had smarts, he’d just never accept it. The case didn’t match the song exactly, but there were enough parallels to give them a starting point.

“If Jasper is the source of the legend then this could be a salt and burn job, or a Tulpa.”

Dean rolled his eyes and cussed under his breath. They’d never come up with a way to defeat a Tupla that didn’t involve burning whole buildings down. It was fast, messy and drew far too much attention.

“I didn’t see any runes or symbols in the shack did you?”

Sam shook his head; they’d have to hit the books to get some history on the shack. He checked his watch; the library would be open for another few hours yet.

“Could be somewhere else, I guess. The library is a couple of blocks from the Sheriff’s Office.”

He caught Dean’s sigh and realized that it wasn’t frustration at having to research the case. His brother was exhausted.

“Why don’t you drop me off and head back to the motel. Try and catch some sleep?”

The fact that Dean agreed so fast made Sam worry all the more.

 

[][][][][][]

 

Dean managed to toe his shoes off and kick them in a corner before he stripped out of his Fed suit. He made a half-hearted attempt to fold the pants and hang the jacket up before he fell face first on the motel bed. The mattress had a funky smell that made his nose wrinkle in distaste. He snorted the scent out of his nose as he grabbed a pillow and punched it into a vaguely comfortable shape. Thinking fondly of his room and bed back at the Bunker he drifted off to sleep. The dream came quickly.

He walked along familiar corridors to the war room of the Bunker. As he got closer to his destination Dean became aware of the voices; the whispering arguing voices. Dean looked through the doorway and froze at the sight of twenty ghostly shrouds hovering above the table.

“Reapers.”

As one they stopped talking and faced him. 

One reaper drifted forward.

“Htaed si erehw?”

“What? I don’t understand you.”

The volume increased as more reapers joined in the chant.

“Htaed si erehw?”

A howling wind was picking up as the reapers got louder. Dean was blown backwards until his back crashed into the wall.

Dean woke with a jolt that almost tipped him out of bed and on to the floor. A glance at the clock told him he’d managed almost three hours sleep. It wasn’t quite enough, but it had at least felt like real sleep, apart from that dream. Reapers; he’d been dreamed about pissed off reapers who wanted something from him. 

He rolled of the bed and rooted in his duffel for some fresh clothes and quickly dressed. There was a cheap motel notepad on the tiny table, Dean grabbed it and threw himself into the chair. He’d never been thrilled when people, usually Cas, had wandered into his dreams in the past. This felt sort of like that, but the reapers hadn’t been making any sense. After a dozen attempts to write down what he had heard he growled in frustration and tore the paper from the notepad. He balled it up and threw it towards the trash. The perfect shot was blocked by Sam as he opened the door and wandered into the room.

“Hey Dean, catch any sleep?”

“Couple of hours. Find anything out?”

For a second Sam held Dean’s eyes. There was a possibility he was going to ask something else, but he decided against it. Instead he dropped a file on the table in front of Dean and started to get changed out of his suit.

“The shack and the land around it were owned by a Leroy Clay.”

Sam paused in unbuttoning his shirt and sure enough Dean said;

“Lucius in the song.”

Sam gave him a nod and carried on getting undressing while he continued telling Dean what he’d found.

“There’s no info on what Leroy was like, but he was found dead in his shack in the summer of 1933. The police had no leads and no one was ever charged, and a couple of days later two brothers were reported missing.”

Sam stopped talking as he pulled a shirt over his head. Dean was looking at Sam’s notes; he chuckled as he read the names of the brothers.

“Brayton? That’s pretty damn close to the name in the song, but there are three brothers in that.”

Sam grinned at him as he slid his arms into a flannel.

“There were three brothers. The youngest was only ten years old. He still lives here in Jasper.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“The guy must be nearly a hundred!”

“Ninety-two. We’re meeting him after the autopsy tomorrow.”

Dean shrugged, impressed at the age that the youngest Brayton brother had lived to. 

“So are we thinking Leroy Clay’s ghost is getting up and walking around?”

Sam grinned at the way Dean had phrased the question, using the song lyrics like the geek he was. Sam dropped down on to his bed with a sigh.

“If it is then we’ve got to find what’s keeping him here, ‘cause it’s not his bones, cremation.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and wondered if they’d ever get a break.

“What about the vic? Anything linking him to the shack and Clay?”

“Nope. There’s no reason for him to have been near the shack. I think it was just a case of wrong place, wrong time for him.”

“Poor bastard. Maybe the family or his friends will have an idea what he was doing up there.

“There’s no one else missing and the sheriff has cordoned off the swamp. We can talk to the family after the autopsy, before we see Mr Brayton.”

Dean’s shoulders relaxed mirroring the way Sam felt. Hell, after the past two months they deserved a night off. Dean stood up and made to grab his jacket.

“Let’s find somewhere to eat then.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam’s eyes opened at the sound. Blinking in the dim light of the motel room he knew exactly what had roused him from sleep. Dean was thrashing around in his sleep. Sam rolled upright and swung his legs over the side of his bed. As he reached his hand out towards Dean’s shoulder, his brother said something. It was muttered and sleep-slurred to the point that Sam couldn’t quite make it out. He turned his ear towards Dean and tried to catch the words.

“Jesus Sammy!”

Dean had startled awake to see a Sasquatch ear looming over him. He swore and shoved his brother away from him. Sam rocked back on to his bed as Dean sat up and scrubbed the grit out of his eyes. 

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Lollipops and candy canes.”

“That bad hey?”

For a second or two he just stared at his annoying little brother while he judged the chances of Sam letting this go. Nope, not even he would play odds that bad. Dean made a sound that was closer to groan than sigh.

“It’s the same dream I’ve been having since the Mark came off. Don’t pull that face Sam. I didn’t say anything ‘cause the whole thing’s been out of focus until the past few days.”

Sam sniffed in a deep breath and blew it out slowly through his mouth. Dean stayed quiet knowing that Sam was doing some hippy Zen stuff to stop him from blowing his top. Dean might tease him for it, but he appreciated it all the same, it was too damn early to start fighting.

“Okay, so now you’ve got something in focus to tell me about, what’s going on in this dream of yours?”

Dean smiled Sam might sound pissy, but he’d caught on as to why Dean hadn’t said anything up until now.

“I’m walking around in the Bunker towards the war room and I can hear these voices whispering and arguing. When I get to the doorway there are all these reapers, true form reapers, all see through shrouds and fugly faces, floating about the table. They turn to me and start shouting something, but I don’t understand the words. They get angry and that’s when I wake up.”

Dean shrugged and realized that he still didn’t have all that much to tell Sam about his weird dream. Sam ran his fingers through his hair and stretched his shoulders.

“Okay, so this probably has something to do with you killing Death. That’s bound to be easier to deal with than the Mark of Cain.”

Dean stared at Sam’s deadpan face and started laughing. Sam joined in and for a couple of minutes the brothers were roaring with laughter. The inhabitants of the next room did not share the humour and banged against the connecting wall.

They got the laughter mostly under control. 

“We’ll solve the Legend of Wooley Swamp then we’ll work out what the pissed off reapers want. Okay?”

“Fine by me. You want first shower?”

Dean looked at his watch. It was just after six, not worth going back to sleep.

“Yeah. Head in the game on this hunt right?”

Sam nodded and grinned when Dean gave him a look of slight disbelief.

“I’m focused Dean. We gank the creepy country song ghost then look into the reaper thing.”

Satisfied Dean headed into the bathroom. Sam waited until he heard the water running before he carefully lifted his phone from the nightstand. No reason why he could make a fast call about the reapers. He’d be able to focus on this hunt if he knew that someone else was focused on Dean’s weird dreams.

 

****

 

“You’re chipper this morning.”

Dean threw his brother a grin. They’d just finished a pretty good breakfast in the same diner they’d eaten dinner in last night and were on the way to the funeral home for the autopsy.

“I feel good. Don’t feel like there’s some strange shit lurking in my head anymore.”

“You’re happy about dreaming of angry reapers?”

“Well when you put it like that, no, of course not. I’m happy I know what I’m dreaming about now.”

Sam thought about it for a second and gave Dean a look of grudging acceptance. The Impala slid into the funeral home’s small parking lot. The brothers unfolded themselves from the front seat. As Sam adjusted his tie he said;

“Just try to keep the grinning to a minimum it there okay?”

Dean stuck his tongue out at Sam and followed him inside. Sam needn’t have worried; the autopsy of Karl Perkins was the first grim appointment of the day. By the time the sunset that night on Jasper Alabama neither Winchester would much feel like raising a smile.

 

****

 

Doc Matthews was five foot six inches of calm efficiency. He gave the impression that he’d come into being as a forty year old coroner who had already seen enough to not be shaken by anything. Twenty years on the job and even a teenager crammed into mason jars didn’t faze him. He was working on removing the hands from the last jar when Dean and Sam stepped into the morgue. Sheriff Olson gave them a tight lipped nod from his corner by the double stainless steel sink. Matthews glanced at them over the top of his half-moon spectacles; he frowned ever so slightly before saying;

“Bear with me for a moment or two please gentlemen.”

After a tensely silent few minutes the hands were freed from the jar and carefully laid on the metal table with the rest of the earthly remains of Karl Perkins. Matthews looked at the three law enforcement officials and asked;

“Are you ready?”

Olson swallowed and waved his hand in a hurry up gesture as he nodded his head.

“Forgive the Sheriff agents; he has difficulty with the odours in here. Okay. As far as I can tell this is a complete body. Apart from the intestines and heart the internal organs are mush. I can’t separate the pre mortem wounds from post because of the way the body was dismembered.”

The doctor gave the Sheriff a concerned glace that made Dean edge slightly further away from Olson. He had a feeling whatever Doc had to say next would cause an explosion of sorts. Before Matthews could continue a deputy tapped at the door and nudged it open just enough to be heard.

“Sheriff? Mr and Mrs Perkins are here. We need you out front.”

The Sheriff shrugged at Matthews and hurried out of the room. Matthews breathed a sigh of relief.

“As I was saying, the body was torn apart, the way you’d tear a drumstick from a Christmas turkey.”

He paused for a second to see how the agents took this grim information. The stoic looks on both faces caused an impressed twitch of his eyebrows.

“I’ll need time to run tests for toxins and to complete a more detailed examination.”

Sam fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to Matthews.

“We understand doctor; if you could keep us updated that would be very helpful.”

Matthews tapped the business card against the palm of his hand for a moment. Sam turned to Dean as if he was getting ready to leave, his broad shoulders blocked Matthews’ view and Dean took the chance to give Sam a tiny shake of his head. The good doctor was holding something back. Dean pushed himself away from the wall and stepped around Sam, directly into Matthews’ line of sight.

“Is there something else you need to mention Doc?”

Matthews looked down at the card in his hand rather than met Dean’s eye. 

“I used to know a fella who passed through here a few times. He knew about things that frankly I didn’t want to believe. He knew how to stop these impossible things.”

The doctor raised his head and met Dean’s eyes, straight and true.

“I’m guessing you fellas are a lot like that guy and I reckon that you’ll know what to do with this.”

From the pocket of his lab coat Matthews took a small sample jar. He handed it to Dean without another word. Dean took a look at the green gloop inside before carefully unscrewing the lid and taking a cautious sniff. 

“Ectoplasm. Spectre grade.”

Dean sealed the lid and tossed the jar to Sam. There was a look of deep relief on Matthews face, but it was tainted with fear.

“We know how to deal with this stuff. We won’t ask you for any more than your job, okay?”

Matthews nodded and visibly relaxed. Sam tilted the sample jar so it caught the light and Matthews’ attention.

“And I guess we don’t have to tell you to keep this between us?”

“Same deal I had with Rufus. I tell him what the body tells me and keep lips zipped on the stuff that makes no damn sense to me.”

 

****

 

“You think it’s odd we ran into someone who knew Rufus?”

Sam and Dean had left Doc Williams to finish the autopsy; they’d already got the information they needed. Dean paused in the practical tiled corridor and looked at the back of his brother’s head. Sam noticed that Dean was no longer in step with him and looked over his shoulder.

“What? You’re staring Dean.”

I didn’t think it was odd that the doctor knew Rufus until you asked. Now I’m wondering if this is the Darkness yanking us around. You know trying to lead us in the wrong direction?”

Sam’s eyes widen and his head tilted to one side as he considered Dean’s words. It was true that the easiest way to manipulate the two of them was through friends and family. Sam figured that every evil in creation had got that memo by now, but he couldn’t see what the play could possibly be in this case. He slowly shook his head at Dean.

“Nope, I think Doc is on the level and we are just getting too paranoid for our own good.”

Dean gave a shrug and started to amble down the corridor again. He’d barely gone three steps when there was a shout from up ahead. They didn’t need to look to check the other had heard it. As one they went into a run from a standing start. The sounds of voiced raised in anger led them from the practical behind the scenes area into the public part of the funeral home.   
The sight and sound of two six foot plus men barging into the small reception room caused the people gathered there to freeze. Dean took in the tableau in front of him and knew that this wasn’t the time to be pulling his gun from its holster. He let his hand clearly drop down to his side and shifted slightly so Sam could comfort the distressed mother. Dean was happy to let Sam do his thing, since sobbing women fell squarely in chick flick territory. He moved towards the angry father, whose raised fist was paused in mid-arc towards Sheriff Olson’s nose. The deputy was hovering uncertainly by the back wall, being no help at all.

“Everything alright here gentlemen?”

The red faced man hesitated and it looked to Dean like he was considering just hauling off at the Olson anyway, but then his shoulders sagged and he stepped away from the Sheriff and lowered his fist. Sam had led Mrs Perkins to a chair and was crouched down talking to her softly as she sobbed into a handful of tissues. Mr Perkins gave his wife a hopeless look and dropped into the chair beside her.

Sheriff Olson finally breathed out and nodded his thanks at Dean.

“These are Karl’s parents, Mona and Jack Perkins.”

Sam gently patted Mrs Perkins hand and rose to his feet. He took a few steps backwards so not to tower over the couple.

“I’m Agent Williams and this is Agent Daniels. We’re both very sorry for your loss.”

As usual Sam had pitched his voice just right and Dean watched in awe as the father sniffed and opened up under Sam’s puppy dog eyes.

“I’m not a violent man Agent, but if the Sheriff here had done his job I wouldn’t be arranging the funeral of my eldest boy.”

Sheriff Olson snorted and Dean saw the man’s hackles rising.

“Now Jack, you know damn well there’s no proof the Mick Hooper has done anything wrong. Period.”

Mrs Perkins looked up from her damp tissues and Dean was damn glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of her glare.

“There’s no smoke without fire Sheriff and Mick Hooper is an odd sort.”

Olson sagged a little and pulled his hat from his head. Sam gave Dean a nod and the two of them left the room, closely followed by Olson. His hat was still in his hand as he softly shut the door.

“Agents, there’s nothing but mean gossip against Hooper. I honestly don’t know what’s gotten into folks recently. It’s like everyone’s running on a short fuse.”

Sam gave Olson a friendly pat on the back.

“Tense economic times can bring out the worst in anyone.”

The Sheriff dropped his hat back on his head and gave Sam a disbelieving look.

“That the party line the boys in Washington got you toeing? ‘Cause that sounds like a load of bull to me.”

Sam nodded and chuckled a little.

“Yeah, but it’s that or start believing that people are possessed.”

Dean laughed a little too loudly at Sam’s comment, but Olson didn’t appear to mind. The men shook hands and parted ways, there was no point trying to talk to the parents just yet. 

 

****

 

The Jasper Retirement Castle made Sam glad that he was unlikely to live long enough to end up in this type of place. It was gloomy, dark and depressing; to the point that Sam wondered if it was worth fighting the Darkness at all. This place could give their newest Evil a run for its money; in fact if they could get the Darkness to check in here for a week it would slink back into whatever prison it had escaped from and lock the door behind itself.

Sam followed Dean along the corridors to room 37. The door was open and he could see Mr Frank Brayton was sat in a wing back chair gazing out of the window. For a moment Sam wondered if this trip had been worth the effort, the old man looked a little vacant. His initial assessment was quickly scrapped as Mr Brayton punched the air and let out a slightly croaky cheer.

“That’s got you flummoxed ya bushy tailed rat!”

Dean cleared his throat to hide a chuckle and Mr Brayton twisted in his chair at the sound. He gave them a brief look over before waving them in.

“I guess you fellas are the FBI agents they said wanted to have a word with me. Come on in then, don’t make an old man get up to greet y’all.”

Dean and Sam walked inside the room and for the first time could appreciate the hundreds of hand draw bird pictures on the walls. Frank Brayton followed their gaze and smiled.

“I’ve always had a talent for drawing. Sketching a good likeness is a sure way to a young lassie’s heart y’know. Let me see some ID then fellas.”

The brother handed over their FBI badges for inspection. 

“I always see folks asking for ID in films and the like, but damned if I know what I’m looking for, y’all could have got these out of a Cracker Jack box.”

He handed them back and Sam found himself warming to the old guy, who was somehow cheerful and happy in these grim surroundings.

“Mr Brayton, we’d like to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of your brothers.”

The old man’s face clouded and his stare returned to the window. From this angle Sam could see an elaborate bird table just outside.

“Pete always liked watching the birds. Stan used to throw rocks at the squirrels that’d raid Ma’s feeders. I can’t throw for spit these days, but I got some of them special feeders now.”

The Winchesters waited. Sam had the feeling they needed to tread gently with Frank Brayton. He was a little surprised when Dean gestured at the seat opposite the old man and waited for a nod before he sat. Leaning slightly forward Dean asked;

“Can you tell us what happened to Pete and Stan, Mr Brayton?”

“Eighty odd years since they vanished, what’s that to the FBI now?”

Sam cleared his throat.

“We think there may be a link to the recent murder of Karl Perkins.”

Frank Brayton fixed Sam with a piercing stare.

“If that’s the way ya thinking, then ya best close the door and sit on down, son.”


End file.
